


(don't promise me) fair sky above

by brinnanza



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Daisy's Scottish Honeymoon Safehouse, Fluff, M/M, MAG 160: The Eye Opens, naps, spoilers for mag160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 17:01:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21256634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: Jon can hardly profess to know what the word even means anymore, but he’d almost call it… peaceful.





	(don't promise me) fair sky above

**Author's Note:**

> WHOMST ELSE IS STRAIGHT UP SHOOK BY 160. Can't believe Jonny really gave us the scottish highlands honeymoon suite. no, nothing happened after that I don't know what you're talking about.
> 
> We'll always have those three weeks.
> 
> (Title is from Hadestown, Promises specifically, because I'm a monster, but this fic is The Softest Shit.)

Late afternoon sunlight, rare enough for Scotland, streams in through the gap in the curtains, falling across the safehouse’s front room and lighting Martin’s ginger hair golden. His head is pillowed in Jon’s lap, long legs stretched out along the sofa. His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, face smoothed in sleep. It’s quiet but for the soft sound of Martin’s breathing, the crackle of the fire burning cheerfully behind the grate. No tape recorders are running, and for once, neither are they. 

Jon can hardly profess to know what the word even means anymore, but he’d almost call it… peaceful. 

It won’t last, of course. Jon’s no fool; He knows Daisy will find them eventually, that any of the terrifying horrors that stalk them could shatter this fragile peace. That Elias - Jonah - knows where they are, can probably see them even now. They have been lucky so far, but the center cannot hold, and there are battles yet to come.

Still. For now, there is peace.

Jon's got his finger marking his place in a book balanced on the arm of the sofa, some cheap paperback Martin had stuffed in with his things as they were packing up. It’s trite, with only a thin pretense of a plot, but Jon has had more than enough of complicated conspiracies for now. He knows from the first chapter how it's going to end, predictable as London rain, but he’s been idly making his way through it as Martin dozes. 

His gaze keeps drifting from the pages to Martin’s face, the fan of his lashes against his cheeks, the plump bow of his lips. He's… Jon is no judge of beauty, not really, but there is something captivating in Martin nonetheless, a gravitational pull that leaves Jon unable to look away.

There had been so much to learn, once. So much to see and to know, so much to catalog and archive and file. The world is an endless stream of information, of fear, of experience, and Jon had wanted so badly once to know it all.

Now, though, he thinks, now he’d be content to learn just this: the spray of freckles across Martin’s nose, the soft wool of his jumper. There are a million little pieces that make up Martin Blackwood, things Jon knows now and doesn’t know yet, things Jon would spend his whole life learning if they only had the time. How Martin takes his tea. His favorite book. The way he scrunches up his nose when Jon is being particularly obtuse, exasperated but always fond, like he loves Jon too much to hide it away beneath a sour expression. 

Martin stirs under Jon's attention, blinks awake and turns a sleepy smile up at Jon. Jon can’t help returning it, the corners of his mouth drawn up as inexorably as the dawn. Something warm blooms within him, a burst of flame that is all heat and light and free of destruction. “Hi there,” Jon says softly, abandoning the book to brush a strand of hair off of Martin’s forehead. “Sleep well?”

Martin hums an assent, reaches up with one hand to stroke Jon’s cheek. The rough pads of his fingertips catch on Jon’s stubble, and Jon turns his face into the touch, pressing a kiss to Martin’s palm. 

“Love you,” Martin says, voice still rough with sleep. He says it so freely, only half-awake and thoughtless with it. Like the words don’t cost him anything. Like loving Jon is just… easy.

Love has never been easy for Jon, not the way it is for Martin, but the warm, bright thing within him grows, expanding to fill all of Jon’s empty spaces until there are no dark corners left. “I love you too,” he says, and his voice cracks in the middle, like it can’t quite bear the weight of the words. This is not the first time he has spoken them aloud, but it is brand new each time, a damp and shivering hatchling crawling its way into a world full of predators. 

Martin’s face goes pink and pleased, like every time Jon says it is the first time all over again. They'd been shrouded in mist then, nothing to grasp onto but each other's hands as they made their way out of the Lonely. Jon had been clumsy with it, more than a little desperate and afraid it was already too late. Martin had gone pink, more color in his face than Jon could remember seeing in… years, probably. He'd spent so long not looking. Not seeing. 

He sees Martin now though, knows how his smile crinkles the corners of his eyes, knows the quiet little huff of impatience he makes when Jon's late coming to bed. Knows how the tips of Martin's ears will go scarlet if Jon leans down to kiss him. 

He does, and they do. 


End file.
